Far beyond the roaring track of the homeward-bound merchantman, lie in the South Pacific the grim clusters of salt-whitened isles marked on the chart as the South Shetlands. Many years have come and gone since their hungry shores were busy with the labours of the sealers, that, disdainful of the terrors of snow-laden gale and spindrift-burdened air, toiled amid the Antarctic weather to fill their holds with the garments of the sea-folk. Then, after perils incredible, the adventurers would return to port, and waste in a week of debauch the fruit of their toil, utterly forgetful of crashing floe or hissing sea, frozen limbs or wrenching hunger pains. When all was spent they would return, resolutely forgetting their folly and wreaking upon the innocent seal all the rage of regret that would rise within them. They spared none—bull, cow, and calf alike were slain, as if in pure lust of slaughter, until the helplessness of utter fatigue compelled them to desist and snatch an interval of death-like sleep, oblivious of all the grinding bitterness of their surroundings. Life was held cheap among them, a consequence, not to be wondered at, of its hardness and the want of all those things that make life desirable. And yet the stern existence had its own strong fascination for those who had become inured to it. Few[314] of them ever gave it up voluntarily, ending their stormy life-struggle in some sudden ghastly fashion and being almost immediately forgotten. Occasionally some sorely-maimed man would survive the horrors of his disablement, lying in the fetid forecastle in sullen endurance until the vessel reached a port whence he could be transferred to civilisation. But these unhappy men fretted grievously for the vast openness of the Antarctic, the gnashing of the ice-fangs upon the black rocks, the unsatisfied roar of the western gale, and the ceaseless combat with the relentless sea.
Many years came and went while the Southern sealer plied his trade, until at last none of the reckless skippers could longer disguise from themselves the fact that their harvest fields were rapidly becoming completely barren. Few and far between were the islets frequented by the seals, the majority of the old grounds being quite abandoned. One by one the dejected fishermen gave up the attempt, until in due time those gaunt fastnesses resumed their primitive loneliness. The long, long tempest roared questioningly over the deserted islands, as if calling for its vanished children, and refusing to be comforted because they were not. Years passed in solitude, but for the busy sea-fowl, who, because they had no commercial value, were left unmolested to eat their fill of the sea’s rich harvest, and rear among the bleak rock-crannies their fluffy broods. At last, out of the midst of a blinding smother of snow, there appeared one day off the most southerly outlier of the South Shetlands a little[315] group of round velvety heads staring with wide, humid eyes at the surf-lashed fortresses of the shore. Long and warily they reconnoitred, for although many generations had passed since their kind had been driven from those seas, the memory of those pitiless days had been so steadily transmitted through the race that it had become a part of themselves, an instinct infallible as any other they possessed. No enemy appearing, they gradually drew nearer and nearer, until their leader, a fine bull seal of four seasons, took his courage in both flippers and mounted the most promising slope, emerging from the foaming breakers majestically, and immediately becoming a hirpling heap of clumsiness that apparently bore no likeness to the graceful, agile creature of a few moments before. Obediently his flock followed him until they reached a little patch of hard smooth sand sheltered by a semi-circle of great wave-worn boulders, and admirably suited to their purpose. Here, with sleepless vigilance of sentinels, they rested, rather brokenly at first, as every incursion of the indignant sea-fowl startled them, but presently subsiding into ungainly attitudes of slumber.
Whence they had come was as great a mystery as all the deep-water ways of the sea-people must ever be to man, or how many halting-places they must have visited and rejected at the bidding of their unerring instinct warning them that the arch-destroyers’ visits were to be feared. However, they soon made themselves at home, fattening marvellously upon the innumerable multitudes of fish that[316] swarmed around the bases of those barren islands, and between whiles basking in the transient sun-gleams that occasionally touched the desolate land with streaks of palest gold. And as time went on, being unmolested in their domestic arrangements, the coming generation tumbled about the rugged shore in those pretty gambols that all young things love, learning steadily withal to take their appointed places in the adult ranks as soon as they had proved their capability so to do. Thus uneventfully and happily passed the seasons until the little party of colonists had grown to be a goodly herd, with leaders of mighty prowess, qualified to hold their own against any of their kind, and inured to combat by their constantly recurring battles with each other, their love affairs, in which they fought with a fury astonishing to witness.
But one bright spring morning, when after a full meal the females were all dozing peacefully among the boulders, and the pups were gleefully waddling and tumbling among them, there came a message from the sea to the fighting males, who instantly suspended their family battles to attend to the urgent call. How the news came they alone knew, its exact significance was hidden even from them, but a sense of imminent danger was upon them all. The females called up their young and retreated farther inland among the labyrinth of rocky peaks that made the place almost impossible for human travel. The males, about forty of them, ranged uneasily along the shore, their wide nostrils dilated and their whiskers bristling with apprehension.[317] Ever and anon they would pause in their watchful patrol and couch silently as if carved in marble, staring seaward with unwinking eyes at the turbulent expanse of broken sea. Presently, within a cable’s length of the shore, up rose an awful head—the enemy had arrived. Another and another appeared until a whole herd of several scores of sea-elephants were massed along the land edge and beginning to climb ponderously over the jagged pinnacles shoreward. Not only did they outnumber the seals by about four to one, but each of them was equal in bulk to half-a-dozen of the largest of the defenders. Huge as the great land mammal from whom they take their trivial name, ferocious in their aspect, as they inflated their short trunks and bared their big gleaming teeth, they hardly deigned to notice the gallant band of warriors who faced them. Straight upward they came as if the outlying rocks had suddenly been endowed with life and were shapelessly invading the dry land. But never an inch did the little company of defenders give back. With every head turned to the foe and every sinew tense with expectation they waited, waited until at last the two forces met. Such was the shock of their impact that one would have thought the solid earth trembled beneath them, and for a while in that writhing, groaning, roaring mass nothing could be clearly distinguished. Presently, however, it could be seen that the lighter, warier seals were fighting upon a definite plan, and that they carefully avoided the danger of being overwhelmed under the unwieldy masses of their[318] enemies. While the huge elephants hampered each other sorely, and often set their terrible jaws into a comrade’s neck, shearing through blubber and sinew and bone, the nimbler seals hung on the outskirts of the heavy leviathans and wasted no bite. But the odds were tremendous. One after another of the desperately fighting seals fell crushed beneath a mammoth many times his size; again and again a fiercely struggling defender, jammed between two gigantic assailants, found his head between the jaws of one of them, who would instantly crush it into pulp. Still they fought on wearily but unflinchingly until only six remained alive. Then, as suddenly as if by some instant agreement, hostilities ceased. The remnant of the invaders crawled heavily seaward, leaving the rugged battle-ground piled mountainously with their dead. The survivors sank exhausted where they had fought such a memorable fight, and slept securely, knowing well that their home was safe, the enemy would return no more. And the rejoicing, ravenous birds came in their countless hosts to feast upon the slain.
So mysterious are all the physical phenomena of the sea that it is, perhaps, hardly possible to say of any particular one that it is more wonderful than the rest. And yet one is sorely tempted thus to distinguish when meditating upon the movements of the almost inconceivable mass of water which goes to make up that major portion of the external superficies of our planet which we call “the sea.” In spite of all the labours of investigators, notwithstanding all the care and patience which science has bestowed upon oceanography, it is nevertheless true that, except in a few broad instances, the direction, the rate, and the dependability of ocean currents still remain a profound mystery. Nor should this excite any wonder. If we remember how great is the influence over the sea possessed by the winds, how slight an alteration in the specific gravity of water is sufficient to disturb its equilibrium and cause masses hundreds of square miles in area to exchange levels with the surrounding ocean, we shall at once admit that, except in those few instances hinted at which may be referred to constant causes, ocean currents must of necessity be still among the phenomena whose operations cannot be reckoned upon with any certainty, but must be watched for[320] and guarded against with the most jealous care by those who do business in great waters.
Perhaps one of the commonest of the many errors made in speaking of marine things is that of confounding current with tide. Now tide, though a variable feature of the circulation of the waters near land, is fairly dependable. That is to say, the navigator may calculate by means of the moon’s age and the latitude of the place not only the time of high water, but knowing the mean height at full and change of the moon, he may and does ascertain to what height the water will rise, or how low it will fall at a certain place on a given date. True, a heavy gale of wind blowing steadily in or against the same direction of the ebbing or flowing tide will accelerate or retard, raise or depress, that tide at the time; but these aberrations, though most unpleasant oftentimes to riparian householders, are rarely of much hindrance or danger to navigation. This cannot be said of the currents of the sea. The tides have their limits assigned to them both inland and off-shore, although in the latter case it is almost impossible to tell exactly where their influence becomes merged in the vaster sway of the ocean currents, with all their unforeseen developments. The limits of tidal waters in rivers, on the other hand, being well under observation at all times, may be and are determined with the greatest exactitude.
With regard to the few instances of dependability among ocean currents, the first place will undoubtedly by common consent be given to the[321] Gulf Stream. Owing its existence primarily to the revolution of the earth upon its axis, its outflow through the tortuous channel connecting the Gulf of Florida with the North Atlantic is more constant and steady in direction than any ebbing or flowing tide in the world, inasmuch as its “set” is invariably upon one course. Its rate is not so uniform, varying somewhat with the season, but in the narrowest part of the channel remaining fairly constant at about four knots an hour. Yet sail but a few score leagues into the Florida Gulf whence this great river in the sea takes its apparent rise, and its influence disappears! The mariner may seek there in vain for that swift, silent flow which in the Straits of Florida sweeps him north-eastward irresistibly in the teeth of the strongest gale. What has happened? Does the mighty stream drain westward into that great land-locked sea by hundreds of channels from the Equatorial regions, but far below the surface, and, obeying some all-compelling impulse, rise to the light upon reaching the Bahama Banks, pouring out its beneficent flood as it comes at the rate of a hundred miles per day? It sweeps into the broad Atlantic, and immediately spreads out into a breadth to which the Amazon is but a brooklet, losing its velocity meanwhile, until, having skirted the North American coast as far as the Grand Banks, it rolls in sublime grandeur eastward towards these “fortunate isles.” As it does so the mystery attendant upon it deepens. Its balmy presence cannot be mistaken, for the air on either side of it may be piercing in its keenness,[322] while immediately above it there is summer. A gale blowing at right angles to its course will raise that terrible combination of waves which gives alike to the “Western Ocean” and the “pitch of the Cape” their evil reputation as the most dangerous in the world; and yet who among navigators has ever been able to determine what, if any, rate of speed it has in mid-Atlantic? Look through hundreds of log-books kept on board ships that are, perhaps, more carefully navigated than any others, the North Atlantic liners, and you shall not find a trace of the Gulf Stream “set” mentioned. In order to make this clear, it should be said that in all properly navigated ships the course steered and the speed made are carefully noted throughout the twenty-four hours; and this course, with distance run, calculated from the position accurately fixed by observation of the celestial bodies at the previous noon, gives the ship’s position by “dead reckoning.” The ship’s position being also found by the celestial bodies at the same time, the difference between the latter and the “dead reckoning” position should give the “set” and direction of the current for the twenty-four hours. And in vessels so carefully steered, and whose speed is so accurately known, as the great liners are, such current data are as trustworthy as any nautical data can be. But according to the records kept by these able navigators, there is no current setting eastward across the North Atlantic. Perhaps the explanation is that it is so very sluggish as to be unnoticeable, for those dreadful monuments of misfortune[323] to themselves and others, the derelict ships, have been known to drift completely backwards and forwards across the Atlantic, finding not only a current to carry them eastward, but its counter-current to carry them back again.
But who among us with the slightest smattering of physiography is there that is not assured that but for the genial warmth of this mighty silent sea-river our islands would revert to their condition at the glacial epoch; who is there but feels a shiver of dread pass over his scalp when he contemplates the possibility of any diversion of its life-giving waters from our shores? The bare suggestion of such a calamity is most terrifying.
As steady and reliable in its operations is the great Equatorial current which, sweeping along the Line from east to westward, is doubtless the fountain and origin of the Gulf Stream, although its operations among that ring of islands guarding the entrance to the Mexican Gulf are involved in such obscurity that none may trace them out. And going farther south, we find the Agulhas current, beloved of homeward-bound sailing-ships round the Cape of Good Hope, pursuing its even, resistless course around the Southern Horn of Africa changelessly throughout the years. How its stubborn flow frets the stormy Southern Sea! No wonder that the early navigators doubling the Cape outward-bound, and fearing to go south, believed that some unthinkable demon held sway over those wild waves. The passage of Cape Horn from east to west holds the bad eminence to-day among seafarers of being the most[324] difficult in the world, but what the outward passage around the Cape of Storms must have been before men learned that it was possible to avoid the stream of the Agulhas current by going a few degrees south we of these later days can only imagine. What becomes of the Agulhas current when once it has poured its volume of Indian Ocean waters into the Atlantic? Does it sink below the surface some hundreds of fathoms, and silently, smoothly, glide south to the confines of the Antarctic ice barrier, or does it wander northward into warmer regions? In any case, it fulfils the one grand function of all currents, whether of air or water—the avoidance of stagnation, the circulation of health among the nations of the earth.
Coming northward in the Pacific, let us note the counterpart of the Gulf Stream, the Kuro Siwo, or Black River of Japan, with the multitudinous isles of the East Indian Archipelago for its Caribbean Sea, and Nippon for its British Isles. It is, however, but a poor competitor in benevolence with our own Gulf Stream, as all those who know their Japan in winter can testify. Others there are that might be noted and classified if this aimed at being a scientific article, but these will suffice. These are surely wide fields enough for the imagination to rove in, wonderful depths of energy in plenty wherein the reverent and thoughtful mind may find all-sufficient food for its workings. Remembering that the known is but the fringe of the unknown, and that the secrets of the ocean are so well kept that man’s hand shall never fully tear aside the veil,[325] we may patiently ponder and wonder. That great sea of the ancients beyond whose portals, according to their wisdom, lay Cimmerian darkness—what keeps its almost tideless waters sweet? Unseen currents enter and leave by the Pillars of Hercules at differing levels, and could we but penetrate those dim regions we should doubtless find the ingress and egress of that incalculable mass of water proceeding continually, the one above the other, renewing from the exhaustless stores of the Atlantic the staleness of the great midland lake, itself apparently remaining in unchanging level.
But when all these great well-known movements of the ocean have been considered, there still remain an infinite number of minor divagations influenced by who knows what hidden causes. The submarine upheavals of central heat, when from out of her glowing entrails the old earth casts incandescent stores of lava, raising the superincumbent mass of water for many square miles almost to boiling-point—who can estimate the effect that these throes have upon the trend of great areas of ocean? The almost infernal energy of those gyrating meteors of the tropics as they rage across the seas—how can any mind, however acute, assess the drag upon the whole body of surface water that is manifested thereby? To say nothing of the displacement caused by the less violent but far more frequent stress laid upon the much-enduring sea by extra-tropical gales, whereby the baffled mariner’s calculations are all overset, and his ship that should be careering safely in the[326] wide offing is suddenly dashed in ruins upon the iron-bound shore!
Great efforts have been made to lay down for the benefit of seafarers a comprehensive scheme of ocean currents all over the watery surface of the globe, but in the great majority of cases the guidance is delusive, the advice untrustworthy, through no fault of the compilers. They have done their best, but mean results can never help particular needs. And so the wary mariner, as far as may be, trusts to the old-fashioned three “L’s,”—lead, log, and look-out; knowing full well how little reliance is to be placed in the majority of cases upon any advice soever concerning the mystery of ocean currents.
Some of the greatest among men have spoken and written regarding the material progress of mankind as if every new invention for shortening distance, for economising time or labour, and increasing production were but another step in the direction of eliminating romance from the weary world.
Especially has this been said of sea traffic. We are asked to believe that in the tiny vessels of Magalhaens, the pestilential hulls of Anson’s squadron, or the cumbrous wooden walls of Trafalgar, there dwelt a romance which is now non-existent at sea—that the introduction of the steam-driven ship has been fatal to a quality which in truth belongs not at all to material things, but holds its splendid court in the minds of men. Do they, these mourners over departed romance, hold, then, that misery is essential to romance? Is it essential to romantic interest at sea that because of the smallness of the ships, their lack of healthful food, their clumsiness of build and snail-like progress, men should suffer horribly and die miserably? Truly, if these things are necessary in order that romance shall flourish, we may find them still amongst us both at sea and on land, though[328] happily in ever lessening proportion to an improved order of things.
But sober consideration will surely convince us that as far as true romance is concerned the modern ironclad warship, for instance, need abate no jot of her claim to the three-decker of last century or the Great Harry of our infant Navy. The sight of a 15,000-ton battleship cleared for action and silently dividing the ancient sea in her swift rush to meet the foe, not a man visible anywhere about her, but all grim, adamantine, and awe-inspiring—in what is she less romantic than the Victory under all canvas breaking the line at Trafalgar? As an incentive to the exercise of the imagination, the ironclad certainly claims first place. Like some fire-breathing dragon of ancient fable she comes, apparently by her own volition, armed with powers of destruction overtopping all the efforts of ancient story-tellers. Yet to the initiated she is more wonderful, more terror-striking, than to the unknowing observer. For the former pierce with the eye of knowledge her black walls of steel, and see within them hundreds of quiet, self-possessed men standing calmly by gun-breech, ammunition-hoist, fire-hose, and hospital. Deep under the water-line are scores of fiercely toiling slaves to the gigantic force that actuates the whole mass. Hardly recognisable as human, sealed up in stokeholes under abnormal air pressure, the clang of their weapons never ceases as they feed the long row of caverns glowing white with fervent heat. All around them and beneath[329] them and above, clearly to be discerned through all the diabolical clamour of engines and roaring of furnaces, is that sense of invisible forces subdued by the hand of man, yet ferociously striving against restraint, a sense that makes the head of the new-comer throb and beat in sympathy until it seems as if the brain must burst its containing bone.
Just abaft these chambers of accumulating energy are the giants being fed thereby. Unhappy the man who can see no romance in the engine-room! Nothing exalting, soul-stirring, in the rhythmical race of weariless pistons, no storm-song in their magnificent voices as they dash round the shaft at ninety revolutions per minute. Standing amid these modern genii, to which those of “The Thousand and One Nights” are but puny weaklings, the sight, the senses are held captive, fascinated by so splendid a manifestation of the combination of skill and strength. And when unwillingly the gazer turns away, there are the men; the grimy, greasy, sweat-stained men. Watchful, patient, cat-like. Ready at the first hint, either from the racing Titans themselves or from the soaring bridge away up yonder in the night, to manipulate lever, throttle-valve, and auxiliaries as swiftly, deftly, and certainly as the great surgeon handles his tools in contact with the silent, living form under his hands.
What a lesson on faith is here. Faith in the workmanship of the complicated monsters they control, faith in one another to do the right thing at the right moment when a mistake would mean annihilation, faith in the watcher above who is guiding the whole enormous mass amidst dangers seen and unseen. This, too, is no blind faith, no mere credulity. It is born of knowledge, and the consequences of its being misplaced must be constantly in mind in order to insure effective service in time of disaster. It would surely be a good thing if more poetry were written on the lines of “McAndrew’s Hymn,” always supposing the poets could be found; greater efforts made to acquaint us who lead comfortable lives ashore with the everyday heroism of, the continual burnt-offering rendered by, the engineer, fireman, and trimmer. Perhaps we might then begin to discern dimly and faintly that so far from the romance of the sea being destroyed by the marine engine, it has been strengthened and added to until it is deeper and truer than ever.
And as with the men in the bowels of the ship so with those above. Commanding such a weapon of war as hinted at in the preceding lines, see the central figure in his tower of steel, surrounded by telephones, electric bells, and voice-tubes. Every portion of the ship, with its groups of faithful, waiting men, is within reach of his whisper. Behind him stands a man like a statue but for the brown hands grasping the spokes of the tiny wheel which operates the 150 horse-power engines far away in the run, which in their turn heave the mighty steel rudder this way or that, and so guide the whole fabric. This man in command[331] wields a power that makes the mind reel to consider. A scarcely perceptible touch upon a button at his side and away speeds a torpedo; another touch, and two guns hurl 850 lbs. of steel shell filled with high explosive to a distance of ten miles if necessary. Obedience instant, perfect, yet intelligent is yielded to his lightest touch, his faintest whisper. So too his subordinates, each in their turn commanding as well as being commanded, and each saturated with the idea that not merely obedience, but obedience so swift as to be almost coincident with the order, is essential. Yet above and beyond all this harmony of discipline is the man who controls in the same perfect way the working, not only of one ship, but of a whole fleet. He speaks, and immediately flags flutter if by day, or electric lights scintillate if by night. Each obedient monster replies by fulfilling his will, and the sea foams as they swoop round each other in complicated evolutions, or scatter beyond the horizon’s rim to seek the common enemy. It is the triumph of discipline, organisation, and power under command.
As it is in the Navy so it is in the Mercantile Marine. Here is a vessel of a capacity greater than that costly experiment born out of due time, the Great Eastern. Her lines are altogether lovely, curves of beauty unexcelled by any yacht afloat. With such perfect grace does she sit upon the sea that the mere mention of her size conveys of it no conviction. Her decks are crowded with landward folk, for whose benefit naval architects and engineers have been busy devising ways and means of bridging the Atlantic. Every comfort and convenience for the poor, every luxury for the rich, is there. Majestically, at the stroke of the hour, she moves, commences her journey. Amid all the hubbub of parting friends, the agony of breaking up home bonds, the placid conductors of this floating city attend to their work. Theirs it is to convey on scheduled time from port to port across the trackless, unheeding ocean all this multitude of units, each a volume of history in himself or herself of most poignant interest could it be unfolded. And oh, the sinuous grace, the persistent speed, the co-partnership of affinity held between man’s newest and God’s oldest work. Its romance is beyond all power of speech to describe. Silent, speechless marvel only can be tendered unto it. The very regularity and order which prevails, the way in which arrivals may be counted on, these are offences in the eyes of some would-be defenders of romance. They are not apparently offended at the unerring regularity of natural phenomena. How is it that the same quality manifested by man’s handiwork in relation to the mutable sea gives occasion of stumbling? A hard question. Not that the mere regularity alone is worthy of admiration, but the triumph of mind over matter, manifested as much in the grimiest little tug crouching behind a storm-beaten headland watching, spider-like, for a homeward-bound sailing-ship, or in the under-engined, swag-bellied tramp creeping stolidly homeward, bearing her quota of provision for a heedless people who would starve without her, is everywhere to be held in admiration as fragrant with true romance, the undying romance of the sea.
Whether there be anything in their surroundings at sea that makes animals more amenable to the taming process is, perhaps, not a question to be easily answered. But one thing is certain: that nowhere do animals become tame with greater rapidity than they do on board ship. It does not seem to make a great deal of difference what the animal is, whether bird or beast, carnivore or herbivore, Jack takes it in hand with the most surprising results, evident in so short a time that it is often difficult to believe that the subject is not merely simulating tameness in order to exercise his powers upon his master or masters in an unguarded moment.
Of course, on board merchant ships the range of variety among pets is somewhat restricted. Cats, dogs, monkeys, pigs, sheep, goats, musk-deer, and birds (of sorts) almost exhaust the list; except among the whale-ships, where the lack of ordinary subjects for taming lead men to try their hand upon such queer pets as walruses, white bears, and even seal-pups, with the usual success. Few pets on board ship ever presented a more ungainly appearance than the walrus. Accustomed to disport its massive bulk in the helpful wave, and only for very brief intervals hooking itself up on[335] to a passing ice-floe as if to convince itself that it really is one of the amphibia, the change in its environment to the smooth deck-planks of a ship is truly radical. And yet it has often been known not only to survive such a change, but to appear contented and happy therein. Its uncouth gambols with the sailors are not to be described; but they are so funny that no one could witness them without laughter, especially when the sage, hoary appearance of even the most youthful walrus is remembered—and, of course, only very young specimens could possibly be obtained alive. But, after all, the morse has its limitations as a pet. Tamed as it often has been, and affectionate as it undoubtedly becomes, it never survives for a great while its privation of sea-bathing, and to the grief of its friends generally abandons the attempt to become permanently domesticated before the end of the season. The white bear, on the other hand, when caught sufficiently young is a great success as a pet, and develops a fund of quaint humour as well as intelligence that one would certainly never suspect from the appearance of the animal’s head. Bears are notably the humorists of the animal kingdom, as any one may verify for himself who chooses to watch them for a few days at the Zoological Gardens, but among them all for pure fun commend us to Ursa Polaris. Perhaps to appreciate the play of a pet white bear it is necessary to be a rough and tough whaleman, since with the very best intentions his bearship is apt to be a little heavy-pawed. And as when his claws grow[336] a very slight mistake on his part is apt to result in the permanent disfigurement of his playmate, his days of pethood are always cut suddenly short as he approaches full growth. Seal-pups have no such drawbacks. They are pretty, affectionate, and domestic, while an occasional douche of salt water from the wash-deck tub will suffice to keep them in good health and spirits for a long time. Such favourites do they become that it is hard to understand how the same men, who will spend much of their scanty leisure playing with the gentle, amiable creatures, can at a moment’s notice resume the crude barbarity of seal-slaughtering with all its attendant horrors of detail. Apart from his cumbrous movements on deck, the seal seems specially adapted for a ship’s pet. He is so intelligent, so fully in touch with his human playmates, that after a short acquaintance one ceases to be surprised at his teachability; it is taken as a matter of course.
Ordinary merchant ships are, as before noted, confined to a limited range of pets. Chief among them is the harmless necessary cat, about which the present writer has written at considerable length in a recent number of the Spectator. But the cat’s quiet domesticity never seems to take such a firm hold upon seamen’s affections as does the livelier friendship of the dog. A dog on board ship is truly a favoured animal. So much so that dogs will give themselves almost as many airs and graces as the one unmarried young lady usually does in the midst of a number of male passengers,[337] and with much the same results. Once, indeed, the presence of two dogs on board of a large ship on an East Indian voyage nearly led to a mutiny. They were both retrievers, the property of the master. But almost from the commencement of the voyage one of them, a fine black dog, “Sailor,” deliberately cast in his lot with the men “forrard,” where he was petted and spoiled, if a dog can be spoiled by petting. The other dog, a brown, dignified animal called “Neptune,” kept to the officers’ quarters. And presently the two pets by some sort of tacit understanding divided the deck between them, the main hatch constituting a sort of neutral ground beyond which neither might pass without a fight. Now, there were also some pets on board of a totally different kind, to wit, three fine pigs, who, contrary to the usual custom, were allowed to roam unpenned about the decks. A fellow-feeling, perhaps, led “Sailor,” the forecastle dog, to fraternise with the genial swine, and the antics of these queerly assorted playmates gave many an hour’s uproarious amusement. But the pigs loved to stray aft, far beyond their assigned limits. Whenever they did so, but a short time would elapse before “Neptune” would bound off the poop, and seizing the nearest offender by the ear, gallop him “forrard” in the midst of a perfect tornado of squeals and clatter of sliding hoofs. This summary ejectment of his friends was deeply resented by “Sailor,” who, with rigid back and gleaming eyes, looked on as if ready to interfere[338] if “Neptune” should overstep the boundaries of his domain. One day the foreseen happened. In the fury of his gallop “forrard” Neptune reached the galley door before he released the pig he had been dragging, then suddenly recollecting himself, was trotting back with deprecatory demeanour, when he met “Sailor” coming round the after end of the house. The two heroes eyed one another for a moment, but only a moment. “Sailor” felt doubtless that this sort of thing had gone far enough, and with a snarl full of fury they joined battle. The skipper was “forrard” promptly, armed with a belaying-pin, and seizing “Sailor” by the neck, began to belabour him heavily. It was too much for the men, who by this time had all gathered around. They rushed to the rescue of their favourite, forgetting discipline, rights of ownership, everything but the unfairness of the proceeding. The belaying-pin was wrested from the captain’s grasp, the dogs torn apart, and with scowling faces the men stood confronting the raging skipper, who for some moments was hardly able to speak. When he was, he said many things, amongst others that he would shoot “Sailor” on sight; but it is perfectly certain that had he carried out his threat he would have had a complete mutiny on his hands. The matter blew over, but it was a long time before things had quite resumed their normal calm. A keen watch was kept over “Sailor” by the men for the rest of the voyage, lest evil should befall him.
Monkeys are, as might be expected, popular as[339] pets. Unfortunately, they disturb the harmony of a ship more than any other animal that could be obtained. For their weird powers of mischief come to perfection where there are so many past masters in the art of animal training, and nothing affords greater amusement to everybody but the sufferer when “Jacko” takes it into his impish head to get loose and ravage the contents of some fellow’s bunk or chest. So much is this the case that many captains will not allow a monkey on board their ship at all, feeling sure that, however peaceable a lot of men he may have found his crew to be before, one monkey passenger is almost sure to be the fountain and origin of many fights after his advent. The things that monkeys will do on board ship are almost beyond belief. One instance may be noted where a monkey in a ship named the Dartmouth gave signal proof of his reasoning powers. He was a little black fellow from Sumatra, and from the time of his coming on board had seemed homesick, playing but few tricks, and only submitting passively to the petting he received. Passing through Sunda Straits he sat upon the forecastle head looking wistfully at the distant land with quite a dejected pose of body. As we drew near the town of Anjer (it was before the awful convulsion of Krakatoa) he suddenly seemed to make up his mind, and springing up he covered his face with his hands and leapt shoreward. We were only going about two knots an hour, happily for him. He struck out vigorously for the shore, but suddenly realised the magnitude of his task apparently, for[340] he turned sharply round and swam back. One of the officers threw him the end of the main-topsail brace, which he grasped and nimbly climbed on board, a wiser monkey. Thenceforward his behaviour was quite cheerful and tricky, until his lamented demise from a chill caught off the Cape. Goats, again, are great favourites on board ship, when they have been taught to let the running gear alone. But their inveterate habit of gnawing everything largely discounts their amiability. The pretty little mongoose, too, until he begins to fraternise with his natural enemies, the rats, is a most pleasant companion, full of play, and cleanly of habit. So is the musk-deer, but it is so delicate that few indeed of them reach home that are bought by sailors among the islands of the East Indian Archipelago. The same fate overtakes most of the birds, except canaries, that sailors buy abroad, and teach on the passage home no end of tricks. Yet deeply as these exotic pets are loved by forecastle Jack, and great as is the pleasure he undoubtedly derives from them, the majority of them fall into the hands of Jamrach and Cross, or other keen dealers in foreign birds and beasts, when the ship reaches home. For it is seldom poor Jack has a home whereto he may bring his pets.
Evening was just closing in, heralded by that indescribable feeling of refreshment in the torrid air always experienced at sea near the Equator when the sun is about to disappear. The men in the “crow’s nests” were anxiously watching the declining orb, whose disappearance would be the signal for their release from their tedious watch. But to the chagrin of every foremast hand, before the sun had quite reached the horizon, the officer up at the mainmast head, taking a final comprehensive sweep with his glasses all around, raised the thrilling cry of “Blo—o—o—o—w.” And despite the lateness of the hour, in less than ten minutes four boats were being strenuously driven in the direction of the just-sighted whale. Forgetting for awhile their discontent at the prospect before them, the crews toiled vigorously to reach their objective, although not a man of them but would have rejoiced to lose sight of him. It was not so to be. At another time he would probably have been startled by the clang of the oars as they turned in the rowlocks, but now he seemed to have lost his powers of apprehension, allowing us to come up with him and harpoon him with comparative ease. The moment that he felt the prick of the keen iron, all his slothfulness seemed[342] to vanish, and without giving one of the other boats a chance to get fast also, he milled round to windward, and exerting all his vast strength, rushed off into the night that came up to meet us like the opening of some dim portal into the unknown. Some little time was consumed in our preparations for the next stage of our proceedings, during which the darkness came down upon us and shut us in with our prey, blotting out our ship and the other boats from the stinted horizon left to us, as if they had never been. By some oversight no compass was in our boat, and, a rare occurrence in those latitudes, the sky was overcast so that we could not see the stars. Also there was but little wind, our swift transit at the will of the whale alone being responsible for the breeze we felt. On, on we went in silence except for the roar of the parted waters on either hand, and unable to see anything but the spectral gleam ahead whenever the great mammal broke water to spout. Presently the headlong rush through the gloom began to tell upon everybody’s nerves, and we hoped, almost prayed for a slackening of the relentless speed kept up by the monster we had fastened ourselves to. The only man who appeared unmoved was the second mate, who was in charge. He stood in the bows as if carved in stone, one hand grasping his long lance and the other resting on his hip, a stern figure whose only sign of life was his unconscious balancing to the lively motion of the boat. Always a mystery to us of the crew, he seemed much more so now, his inscrutable[343] figure dimly blotched against the gloom ahead, and all our lives in his hand. For a year we had been in daily intercourse with him, yet we felt that we knew no more of the man himself than on the first day of our meeting. A strong, silent man, who never cursed us as the others did, because his lightest word carried more weight than their torrents of blasphemy, and withal a man who came as near the seaman’s ideal of courage, resourcefulness, and tenacity as we could conceive possible. Again and again, as we sped onwards through the dark, each of us after his own fashion analysed that man’s character in a weary purposeless round of confused thought, through the haze of which shot with dread persistence the lurid phrase, “a lost boat.” How long we had thus been driving blindly on none of us could tell—no doubt the time appeared enormously prolonged—but when at last the ease-up came we were all stiff with our long constraint of position. All, that is, but Mr. Neville our chief, who, as if in broad day within a mile of the ship, gave all the necessary orders for the attack. Again we were baffled, for in spite of his unprecedented run the whale began to sound. Down, down he went in hasteless determined fashion, never pausing for an instant, though we kept all the strain on the line that was possible, until the last flake of our 300 fathoms left the tub, slithered through the harpooner’s fingers round the loggerhead, and disappeared. Up flew the boat’s head with a shock that sent us all flying in different directions, then all was silent. Only for a minute.[344] The calm grave tones of Mr. Neville broke the spell by saying, “Make yourselves as comfortable as you can, lads, we can do nothing till daylight but watch for the ship.” We made an almost whispered response, and began our watch. But it was like trying to peer through the walls of an unlit cellar, so closely did the darkness hem us in. Presently down came the rain, followed by much wind, until, notwithstanding the latitude, our teeth chattered with cold. Of course we were in no danger from the sea, for except in the rare hurricanes there is seldom any wind in those regions rising to the force of a gale. But the night was very long. Nor did our miserable anticipations tend to make our hard lot any easier.
So low did we feel that when at last the day dawned we could not fully appreciate the significance of that heavenly sight. As the darkness fled, however, hope revived, and eager eyes searched every portion of the gradually lightening ring of blue of which we were the tiny centre. Slowly, fatefully, the fact was driven home to our hearts that what we had feared was come to pass; the ship was nowhere to be seen. More than that, we all knew that in that most unfrequented stretch of ocean months might pass without signs of vessel of any kind. There were six pounds of biscuits in one keg and three gallons of water in another, sufficient perhaps at utmost need to keep the six of us alive for a week. We looked in one another’s faces and saw the fear of death plainly inscribed; we looked at Mr. Neville’s face and[345] were strengthened. Speaking in his usual tones, but with a curiously deeper inflexion in them, he gave orders for the sail to be set, and making an approximate course by the sun, we steered to the N.W. Even the consolation of movement was soon denied us, for as the sun rose the wind sank, the sky overhead cleared and the sea glazed. A biscuit each and half-a-pint of water was served out to us and we made our first meal, not without secretly endeavouring to calculate how many more still remained to us. At Mr. Neville’s suggestion we sheltered ourselves as much as possible from the fierce glare of the sun, and to keep off thirst poured sea-water over one another at frequent intervals. Our worst trial for the present was inaction, for a feverish desire to be doing—something—no matter what, kept our nerves twitching and tingling so that it was all we could do to keep still.
After an hour or two of almost unbroken silence Mr. Neville spoke, huskily at first, but as he went on his voice rang mellow and vibrant. “My lads,” he said, “such a position as ours has been occupied many times in the history of the sea, as you all well know. Of the scenes that have taken place when men are brought by circumstances like these down from their high position in the scale of Creation to the level of unreasoning animals, we need not speak; unhappily such tragedies are too clearly present in the thoughts of every one of us. But in the course of my life I have many times considered the possibilities of some day being[346] thus situated, and have earnestly endeavoured to prepare myself for whatever it had in store for me. We are all alike here, for the artificial differences that obtain in the ordinary affairs of life have dropped away from us, leaving us on the original plane of fellow-men. And my one hope is, that although we be of different nationalities, and still more widely different temperaments, we may all remember that so long as we wrestle manfully with the beast that is crouching in every one of us, we may go, if we must go, without shame before our God. For consider how many of those who are safe on shore this day are groaning under a burden of life too heavy to be borne, how many are seeking a refuge from themselves by the most painful byways to death. I am persuaded, and so are all of you, if you give it a thought, that death itself is no evil; the anticipation of pain accompanying death is a malady of the mind harder to bear by many degrees than physical torture. What I dread is not the fact of having to die, although I love the warm light, the glorious beauty of this world as much as a man may, but that I may forget what I am, and disgrace my manhood by letting myself slip back into the slough from which it has taken so many ages to raise me. Don’t let us lose hope, although we need not expect a miracle, but let each of us help the other to be a man. The fight will be fierce but not long, and when it is won, although we may all live many days after we shall not suffer. Another thing, perhaps some of you don’t believe in any[347] God, others believe mistily in they know not what. For my part I believe in a Father-God from whom we came and to whom we go. And I so think of Him that I am sure He will do even for an atom like me that which is not only best for me but best for the whole race of mankind as represented in me. He will neither be cruel nor forget. Only I must endeavour to use the powers of mind and body He has given me to the best advantage now that their testing-time has come.”
With eyes that never left that calm strong face we all hung upon his words as if we were absorbing in some mysterious way from them courage to endure. Of the five of us, two were Scandinavians, a Swede and a Dane, one, the harpooner, was an American negro, one was a Scotchman, and myself, an Englishman. Mr. Neville himself was an American of old Puritan stock. When he left speaking there was utter silence, so that each could almost hear the beating of the other’s heart. But in that silence every man of us felt the armour of a high resolve encasing him, an exalting courage uplifting him, and making his face to shine.
Again the voice of our friend broke the stillness, this time in a stately song that none of us had ever heard before, “O rest in the Lord!” From thenceforward he sang almost continually, even when his lips grew parched with drought, although each of us tendered him some of our scanty measure of water so that he might still cheer us. Insensibly we leant upon him as the time dragged on, for we felt that he was a very tower of strength[348] to us. Five days and nights crept away without any sign of change. Patience had become a habit with us, and the scanty allowance of food and drink had so reduced our vitality that we scarcely felt any pain. Indeed the first two days were the worst. And now the doles became crumbs and drops, yet still no anger, or peevishness even, showed itself. We could still smile sanely and look upon each other kindly. Then a heavy downpour of rain filled our water-breaker for us, giving us in the meantime some copious draughts, which, although they were exquisitely refreshing at the time, racked us with excruciating pains afterwards. The last crumb went, and did not worry us by its going, for we had arrived by easy stages at a physical and mental condition of acquiescence in the steady approach of death that almost amounted to indifference. With a strange exception; hearing and sight were most acute, and thought was busy about a multitude of things, some of them the pettiest and most trivial that could be imagined, and others of the most tremendous import. Speech was difficult, impossible to some, but on the whole we must have felt somewhat akin to the Hindu devotees who withdraw themselves from mankind and endeavour to reduce the gross hamperings of the flesh until they can enter into the conception of the unseen verities that are about us on every side. What the mental wrestlings of the others may have been they only knew; but to outward seeming we had all been gently gliding down into peace.
The end drew near. Nothing occurred to stay its approach. No bird or fish came near enough to be caught until we were all past making an effort had one been needed. We had lost count of time, so that I cannot say how long our solitude had lasted, when one brilliant night as I lay in a state of semi-consciousness, looking up into the glittering dome above, I felt a hand touch me. Slowly I turned my head, and saw the face of the negro-harpooner, who lay by my side. I dragged my heavy head close to his and heard him whisper, “I’m a goin’ an I’m glad. What he said wuz true. It’s as easy as goin’ ter sleep. So long.” And he went. What passed thereafter I do not know, for as peacefully as a tired man settles himself down into the cosy embrace of a comfortable bed, heaving a sigh of utter content as the embracing rest relaxes the tension of muscles and brain, I too slipped down into dreamless slumber.
I awoke in bitter pain, gnawing aches that left no inch of my body unwrung. And my first taste of life’s return gave me a fierce feeling of resentment that it would all have to be gone through again. I felt no gratitude for life spared. That very night of my last consciousness the whaler that rescued us must have been within a few miles, for when we were sighted from her crow’s-nest at daybreak we were so near that they could distinguish the bodies without glasses. There were only three of us still alive, the fortunate ones who had gone to their rest being Mr. Neville, the harpooner, and the Swede. The rescuers said[350] that except for the emaciated condition of our bodies we all looked like sleepers. There were no signs of pain or struggle. It was nearly two months before we who had thus been brought back to a life of care and toil were able to resume it, owing to our long cramped position as much as to our lack of strength. I believe, too, that we were very slow in regaining that natural will-to-live which is part of the animal equipment, and so necessary to keep off the constant advances of death. And, like me, my companions both felt that they could not be grateful for being dragged back to life again.
While the whaler to which I belonged was lying at Honolulu I one day went ashore for a long ramble out of sight and hearing of the numerous questionable amusements of the town, and late in the afternoon found myself several miles to the southward of it. Emerging from the tangled pathway through which I had been struggling with the luxuriant greenery, I struck the sand of a lovely little bight that commanded an uninterrupted view to seaward. Less than a mile out a reef of black rocks occasionally bared their ugly fangs for a brief space amidst the sleek waters, until the sleepily advancing swell, finding its progress thus hindered, rose high over their grim summits in a league-long fleece of dazzling foam, whose spray glittered like jewels in the diagonal rays of the declining sun.
Upon a little knoll left by the receding tide sat a man staring stolidly out to sea. As I drew near, my approach making no noise upon the yielding sand, I saw that he was white. By his rig—a shirt and trousers, big grass hat, and bare feet—I took him for a beach-comber. These characters are not often desirable companions—human weeds cast ashore in such places, and getting a precarious living in dark and devious ways without work. But I felt inclined for company and a rest after my long tramp, so I made for him direct. He raised his head at my nearing him, showing a grizzled beard framing a weather-beaten face as of a man some sixty years old. There was a peculiar, boiled look about his face, too, as if he had once been drowned, by no means pleasant to see.
He gave me “Good evening!” cheerfully enough as I sat down beside him and offered my plug of tobacco. Cutting himself a liberal quid, he returned it with the query, “B’long ter wun er the spouters, I persoom?” “Yes,” I replied; “boat-header in the Cachalot.” “Ah,” he replied instantly, “but yew’re no Yank, neow, air ye?” “No, I’m a Cockney—little as you may think that likely,” said I; “but it’s a fact.” “Wall, I don’no,” he drawled, “I’ve a-met Cockneys good’s I want ter know; ’n’ why not?”
The conversation then drifted desultorily from topic to topic in an aimless, time-killing fashion, till at last, feeling better acquainted, I ventured to ask him what had given him that glazy, soaked appearance, so strange and ghastly to see. “Look a-heah, young feller,” said he abruptly, “heouw old je reckon I mout be?” Without the slightest hesitation I replied, “Sixty, or thereabouts.” He gave a quiet chuckle, and then said slowly, “Wall, I doan’ blame ye, nuther; ’n’ as to feelin’—wall, sumtimes I feel ’s if I’d ben a-livin’ right on frum the beginnin’ ov things. My age, which ’s about the one solid fact I kin freeze onter now’days, is thutty-two. Yew won’t b’lieve it, of course; but thet’s nothin’ ter what ye will hear, ef yew wait awhile.
“What I’m goin’ ter tell ye happened—lemme see—wall, I doan’no—mebbe two, mebbe four er five year sence. I wuz mate of a pearlin’ schooner b’longin’ ter Levuka, lyin’ daouwn to Rotumah. Ware we’d ben workin’ the reef wuz middlin’ deep—deep ’nuf ter make eour b’ys fall on deck when they come up with a load, ’n’ lie there like dead uns fer ’bout ten minnits befo’ they k’d move ag’in. ’Twuz slaughterin’ divin’; but the shell wuz thick, ’n’ no mistake; ’n’ eour ole man wuz a hustler—s’long’s he got shell he didn’t vally a few dern Kanakers peggin’ eout neow ’n’ then. We’d alost three with sharks, ’n’ ef ’twan’t thet th’ b’ys wuz more skeered of old Hardhead than they wuz of anythin’ else I doan reckon we sh’d a-got any more stuff thet trip ’t all. But ’z he warn’t the kind er blossom to play any games on, they kep’ at it, ’n’ we ’uz fillin’ up fast. The land was ’bout ten mile off, ’n’ they wuz ’bout fifty, er mebbe sixty fathom water b’tween the reef we wuz fishin’ on ’n’ the neares’ p’int. Wall, long ’bout eight bells in the afternoon I uz a-stannin’ by the galley door watchin’ a Kanaker crawlin’ inboard very slow, bein’ ’most done up. Five er six ov ’em uz hangin’ roun’ ’bout ter start below agen, ’n’ th’ ole man uz a-blarsfemion gashly at ’em fer bein’ so slow. Right in the middle of his sermont I seed ’im go green in the face, ’n’ make a step back from the rail, with both hans helt up in front ov ’im ’s if he uz skeered ’most ter de’th. ’N’ he wuz, too. There cum lickin’ inboard after him a long grey slitherin’ thing like a snake ’ith no head but a lot uv saucers stuck onto it bottom up. ’N’ befo’ I’d time ter move, bein’ ’most sort er paralised, several more ov the dern things uz a-sneakin’ around all over the deck. The fust one got the skipper good ’n’ tight ’ith a round turn above his arms, ’n’ I saw him a-slidin’ away. The schooner wuz a-rollin’ ’s if in a big swell—which there warn’t a sign of, ’s I c’d see. But them snaky grey things went quicker ’n’ thinkin’ all over her, ’n’ befo’ yew c’d say ‘knife’ every galoot, includin’ me, wuz agoin’ ’long with ’em back to where they’d come from.
“Say, d’yew ever wake up all alive, ’cep’ yew couldn’ move ner speak, only know all wuts goin’ on, ’n’ do the pow’flest thinkin’ ’bout things yew ever did in yer life? Yes, ’n’ that’s haow I wuz then. When thet cold gristly sarpint cum cuddlin’ roun’ me, ’n’ the saucers got onto me ’s if they’d suck out me very bow’ls, I’d a gi’n Mount Morgan ter died; but I couldn’t ev’n go mad. I saw the head ov the Thing them arms b’long’d ter, ’n’ ’twuz wuss ’n the horrors, ’cause I wuz sane ’n’ cool ’n’ collected. The eyes wuz black, ’n’ a foot or more across, ’n’ when I looked into ’em I see meself a-comin’.”
He was silent for a minute, but shaking as if with palsy. I laid my hand on his arm, not knowing what to say, and he looked up wistfully, saying, “Thenks, shipmate; thet’s good.” Then he went on again.
“The whole thing went back’ards, takin’ us along; ’n I remember thinkin’ ez we went of[355] the other Kanakers below thet hedn’t come back. I he’rd the bubbles ’s each of us left the sunshine, but never a cry, never another soun’. The las’ thing I remember seein’ ’bove me wuz th’ end of the schooner’s mainboom, which wuz guyed out to larberd some, ’n’ looked like a big arm struck stiff an’ helpless, though wishful to save. Down I went, that clingin’ snaky coil round me tighter ’n my skin. But wut wuz strangest ter me wuz the fact that not only I didn’t drown, but I felt no sort er disconvenience frum bein’ below the water. ’N’ at last when I reached the coral, though I dessay I looked corpse enough, ’twuz only my looks, fur I felt, lackin’ my not bein’ able ter move, breathe, er speak, ez peart ’n’ fresh ez I dew naow. The clutch thet hed ben squeezin’ me so all-fired tight begun to slack, ’n’ I felt more comf’ble; ’n’ ef ’t ’adn’t ben fer the reck’lection uv them eyes ’n’ thet berryin’-groun’ ov a mouth, I doan’no but wut I might ha’ been a’most happy. But I lay thar, with the rest uv my late shipmates, sort er ready fer consumpshun, like the flies in the corner of a spider’s web; ’n’ thet guv me a pow’ful heap ov a bad time.
“After a while the quiet of the place begun ter breed strange noshuns in my hed—jest like ’s if I wuz dreamin’, though wide awake ’s ever I wuz in all my life. I jest ’peared to be ’way back at the beginnin’ uv things, befo’ they wuz anythin’ else but water, ’n’ wut life there wuz in them early days hed ter dew ’ithout air er sun er light. I’d read the Bible some—not ter say frequent, ’n’, bein’ but a poor skollar, Jennersez wuz ’bout ’s fur ’s I got. But onct a Blue-nose I uz shipmates with wuz pow’ful fond uv one er the Bible yarns he called the Book of Jobe, ’n’ he use’ ter read thet off ter me ’twell I nearly got it through my he’d solid. Anyway, much ov it kem back ter me neow—bits ’beout the foundayshons ov the world, ’n’ the boun’s ov the sea, ’n’ suchlike.
“’N’ all the time overright me in the mouth ov a gret cave, with them res’less thutty-foot feelers ever a-twistin’ ’n’ wrigglin’ aroun’, wuz the Thing itself, them awful eyes jest a-showin’, like moons made ov polished jet, in the dimness. Some ov my shipmates wuz gone, the skipper among ’em; but some, like me, wuz layin’ quiet ’n’ straight; while all about us the fish, ov every shape ’n’ size, wuz a-gliden’ slow ’n’ stealthy, like as if ever on the watch ’gainst some enemy er anuther.
“It seemed so long I laid thar thet I felt able to remember every bush ’n’ bough ov coral, every boulder, that in queerest shapes yew ever see lay scattered aroun’. At last, never havin’ quite los’ sight of thet horrible ungodly Thing in the cave yander, I see It kem eout. I never knowed thar wuz a God till then. Sence thet time, whenever I hear some mouthy critter provin’ ez he calls it, poor child! thet ther ain’t, ’n’ cain’t be, any God, I feel thet sorry fer him I c’d jest sail right in ’n’ lam the foggy blether out’n his fool-skull. But ez I wuz a-sayin, eout kem the Thing till I see the hull gret carcass ov It, bigger ’n the bigges’ sparm whale I ever see, jest a haulin’ ’n’ a warpin’ along by them wanderin’ arms over the hills ’n’ hallers ov the reef t’ords me. It floated between me ’n’ wut light ther wuz, which wuz suthin’ ter be thankful fer, fer I’d a gi’n my life ter be able to shet my eyes from it ’n’ wut wuz comin’. It hung right over me, ’n’ I felt the clingin’ suckers closin’ all aroun’ me, when all of a sudden they left me ag’in. The gret black shadder moved ter one side ’n’ daown through that clear water cum a sparm whale, graceful ’n’ easy’s an albacore. I never thought much of old squar’head’s looks before, but I’m tellin’ ye, then he looked like a shore-nough angel ’longside thet frightful crawlin’ clammy bundle of sea sarpients.
“But I hedn’t much time ter reflec’, fer thet whale had come on bizness, ’n’ ther wa’n’t any percrastinatin’ ’bout him. When he got putty cluss up to the Thing that wuz backin’ oneasily away, he sorter rounded to like a boat comin’ ’longside, only ’sted ov comin’ roun’ he come over, clar he’d over flukes. His jaw wuz hangin’ daown baout twenty foot with all the big teeth a shinin’, ’n’ next I knew he’d got thet gol-durned Thing in his mouth with a grip right behin’ them awful Eyes. Roun’ come the tangle of arms like the sails of a windmill lacin’, clutchin’, tearin’ at the whale’s head. But they might so well hev hugged the Solander Rock. It made no sorter diffrunce ter him, ’n’ his jaw kep’ on workin’ fer all it wuz worth a-sawin’ off the tremenjus he’d of the Thing. Then the light went eout. My gosh! thet water wuz jest turned inter ink, ’n’ though yew c’d feel the sway ’n’ swirl ov thet gret struggle like the screw race ov some big liner ther wa’n’t nothin’ ter be seen. So I reckon the Thing I’d been puzzlin’ ter fine a name fer wuz jest the Gret Mogul ov all the cuttle-fish, ’n’ bein’ kinder hard prest wuz a-sheddin’ the hull contents ov his ink-tank.
“Wall, I wuz sorter int’rested in this mush ’n’ very much wanted ter see it through, but thet satisfacshun wuz denied me. All the churnin’ ’n’ thrashin’ went on jest above me in pitch-dark ’n’ grave-quiet. Bimeby the water ceased to bile aroun’ ’n’ got clearer, till after a while I c’d see gret shadders above movin’ swiffly. The sea took on anuther colour quite femiliar ter me, sorter yaller, a mixin’ ov red ’n’ blue. Funniest thing wuz the carm way I wuz a takin’ ov it all, jest like a man lookin’ out’n a b’loon at a big fight, er a spectayter in a g’lanty show hevin’ no pusnal concern in the matter ’t all. Presently sneakin along comes a white streak cluss ter me. Long befo’ it touched me I knew it fer wut it wuz, ’n’ then I wuz in de’dly fear less the hope uv life after all sh’d rouse me eout uv thish yer trance or whatever it wuz. ’Twuz a whale-line frum some whaleship’s boat a-fishin’ overhe’d. It kem right to me. It teched me ’n’ I felt ’s’if I must come to ’n’ die right there ’n’ then. But it swep’ right under me, ’n’ then settled daown coil after coil till I wuz fair snarled erp in it. By this time the water’d got so soupy thet I could’n’ see nothin’, but ’twa’n’t long befo’ I felt myself a-risin’—eout uv the belly uv Hell ez Jonah sez.
“Up I kem at a good lick till all uv a sudden I sees God’s light, smells His air, ’n’ hears voices uv men. Gosh, but wa’n’t they gallied when they see me. Blame ef I did’n’ half think they’d lemme go ag’in. The fust one ter git his brains ter work wuz the bow oarsman, a nigger, who leaned over the gunnel, his face greeny-grey with fright, ’n’ grabbed me by the hair. Thet roused the rest, ’n’ I wuz hauled in like a whiz. Then their tongues got ter waggin’, ’n’ yew never heard so many fool things said in five minutes outside er Congress.
“It didn’ seem ter strike any ov ’em thet I moutn’t be so very dead after all, though fortnitly fer me they conclooded ter take me aboard with ’em. So I laid thar in the bottom ov the boat while they finished haulin’ line. Ther wuz a clumsy feller among ’em thet made a slip, hittin’ me an ugly welt on the nose as he wuz fallin’. Nobody took any notice till presently one ov ’em hollers, ‘Why dog my cats ef thet corpse ain’t got a nosebleed.’ This startled ’em all, fer I never met a galoot so loony ez ter think a de’d man c’d bleed. Hows’ever they jest lit eout fer the ship like sixty ’n’ h’isted me aboard. ’Twuz er long time befo’ they got my works a-tickin’ ag’in, but they done it at last, ’n’ once more I wuz a livin’ man amon’ livin’ men.
“Naow ov course yew doan’ b’lieve my yarn—yew cain’t, tain’t in nacher, but, young feller, thar’s an all-fired heap o’ things in the world that cain’t be beleft in till yew’ve ’speriunced ’em yerself thet ’s trew’s gospel fer all thet.”
I politely deprecated his assumption of my disbelief in his yarn, but my face belied me, I know; so, bidding him “S’long” with a parting present of my plug of tobacco (it was all I had to give), I left him and by the failing light made all speed I could back to my ship.